


Nothing Good

by twtd



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: Anonymous Sex, F/F, POV First Person, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-16
Updated: 2010-02-16
Packaged: 2017-10-07 08:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twtd/pseuds/twtd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emily doesn't go out to enjoy herself but for reasons that even she doesn't understand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing Good

She smells like cigar smoke, thick and too sweet. She smells like bad tequila, sour and harsh, spilled over her hands. She smells like cheep, rotting leather, sharp and acrid, wrapping around her thighs and hips and mingling with her sweat, overwhelming and terrible and intoxicating. I don't know who she is, but I'm pressing my tongue against the seam of her pants anyway.

The floor is hard and sticky under my knees and she is hot under my tongue, even through the layers and the clichés. She told me her name, but I don't remember it. It won't matter in half an hour. It doesn't matter now.

If she was wearing a cock, it would be halfway down my throat and I would already be thinking up excuses for tomorrow. She isn't, but the excuses are already there. The leather tastes worse than it smells and her hands are in my hair, pulling painfully upward. I'm gripping her thighs just as hard, leaving impressions with my nails, hoping that she can feel it. The pain only stops for a second, and then her pants are around her ankles and she's pulling me close again.

She isn't wearing anything under her pants, and she tastes almost exactly like she smells, sour and salty and like nothing good. It's how I want her to taste, how I want her to feel against my tongue, slick, wet, rough. Hot enough under my fingers to burn away the blood in my eyes and dark enough to absorb everything else.

She is perfect.

She is tight around my fingers, pushing down on them, trapping my hand between her body and the bench, bending my wrist back, making it crack.

I'm wet around my own fingers, rubbing my own clit as frantically as I'm licking hers. I can feel the calluses on my fingertips, on my palm, from hours of practicing, creating memories for my muscles, etching motions under my skin. There are tattoos on my tendons in black and white, three letters that I wanted so badly but that I have not made peace with. I can tell when my heartbeat speeds, when my breathing catches, and I let myself relax, a conscious effort for what should be so easy.

My arm is cramping.

Her thighs are twitching.

And then suddenly her fingers are flexing in my hair and her feet are pushing into the floor and she's moaning what she thinks is my name. The one I gave her where I wouldn't have to worry about leaving it behind.

I pull away as soon as she's done, standing and zipping up my own pants. I'm still throbbing, still on edge, but that's fine. That's what I expected and it's all that I'll allow myself. The bar has become too crowded and too noisy and too much of everything else that I can't stand it anymore.

The cold air cracks around me as a cab squeals to a stop a few feet away. A deep breath, a hand through my hair, and I'm ready to go back. One more time. One more day.


End file.
